An Unfortunate Episode
by TemporarilyAbaft
Summary: One of the Irregular's pets swallow something precious of Dr. Watson's. In an effort to salvage his pride, Watson makes a decision that, really, probably only makes matters worse for himself (but more amusing for us). An answer to a silly prompt from a friend.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES:** I asked my friends for writing prompts, and one friend gave me an absolutely _ridiculous_ one. To spite her, I've gone and written it. She intended it to be crack, but I've taken it seriously and tried to keep it from being OOC. I'm just hoping I succeeded...

* * *

The room went completely still in shock. For five seconds, the only sound to be heard was the tick of the clock by the mantel. The boy's mouth fell open, and the doctor's face filtered through several emotions in the intervening seconds; there was disbelief, followed by desperation; then outrage. Most intimidating, however, was the look of murder that shifted and settled upon his face, smearing Watson's features into a determined scowl and marking the boy's unfortunate pet as target.

An unruffled _quack _was all the distasteful creature could manage in its defense.

The sound spurred Watson into motion and, with a snarled swear, he moved for the neck of the mangy bird that stood upon his desk. The boy wailed in fear and jumped up, waving his arms pleadingly. "No! Doc, 'e didn't mean it! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! Please, don't—"

Watson interrupted absently, intent on capturing his unwary prey. "My _wedding_ ring! It's swallowed my _wedding ring_, Tracy, I've got—"

The boy lunged and hung from Watson's left arm even as the doctor's hands tightened around the animal's throat. The duck, having finally realized that its life was in substantial danger, squawked and flapped in Watson's grasp. Tracy continued to tug ineffectually at Watson's forearm.

"No, you can't 'urt 'im! You're a _doctor_, you're not _allowed_ to 'urt 'im! You took a _hippo-crates oath_ and I know what that means, Mr. 'Olmes 'splained it to me—"

"The _Hippocratic oath_ does not apply to thieving _ducks_, Tracy," Watson growled angrily, prizing the bird's mouth open to try and spy a glint of gold. If he couldn't find it, he may have to kill the wretched thing.

As if reading his mind, Tracy chose that very moment to dissolve into sobs, his voice scaling upwards. "Come _on_, Doctor, _please_, I _promise _'e didn't know… Please, please don't 'urt 'im!" A miserable hiccup came from Watson's elbow. "Me and Wig found 'im and- a-and we w-were gunna keep 'im! A-as a _pet_, like!"

Almost all of Tracy's weight was laid upon the Doctor's arm now (_of course, my bad arm_, Watson thought ruefully), and Watson glared down at the sobbing lad. Tracy took no notice and instead buried his head upon his raised arms, wailing more and more brokenly.

"Please, I'll do anything! Just don't 'urt 'im, please…"

Watson stared at the sniffling mess hanging from his arm, then at the struggling bird in his hands.

Another three seconds passed in pointless deliberation. Watson knew he was stuck, and he cursed himself for his soft-heartedness. He sighed loudly and hung his head against his chest.

"_Fine,_" he growled exasperatedly.

Tracy's head shot up in tear-stained disbelief, and before Watson could shush him, began a torrent of incomprehensible 'thank-you's. When the boy could finally listen around his sniffles and hysteric pleas of gratitude, Watson forced the boy to look him in the eye.

"I'll have to keep him with me for a couple of days, as long as it takes for the da- the _darn_ thing to… Well, process its meal." Tracy nodded fiercely, eager for any scenario where his precious duck may be free from Watson's wrath. "Furthermore, _never again_ bring any pets to Baker Street, do you understand me? You or any of the other Irregulars, if you please."

The lad had originally stopped by because he was feeling poorly. While Miss Hudson had looked askance at the duck tucked under Tracy's arm, his rough cough had quickly earned him sympathetic passage for a consultation with Dr. Watson.

Watson, who had removed his wedding ring in the course of the afternoon, had simply not thought to move the shiny band out of reach of wandering waterfowl.

Tracy nodded again, sniffling and rubbing his nose with his sleeve. Watson sighed and briefly placed the duck in the Irregular's custody. He retrieved some medicine from his bag (and a spare handkerchief, for the sleeve was beginning to look dubiously crusty) and, trading animal for mineral, instructed Tracy as to when he should ingest the powdery concoction.

The boy left with many backwards glances at the precious bundle gripped firmly in the doctor's arms.

When the sitting room door was closed, Watson took a deep breath. He looked down. The duck craned its head to inspect Watson's moustache. Watson huffed bitterly at it.

Of all of the ridiculous things in his life, standing in the middle of the sitting room clutching a duck that had stolen one of his most precious belongings was perhaps one of the most personally embarrassing.

And it was at that moment that he remembered Holmes.

Would Holmes object to sharing his sitting room with a duck? Almost assuredly.

Would he try and find a way to hasten its removal? Most likely.

Would that way involve chemicals? A new compound he'd wanted to experiment with?

_Would the accursed thing survive an examination from an overeager Holmes?_

More importantly, would Watson's pride survive the sarcastic commentary to follow, or the repeated retellings of, "ah yes, that time Watson here, in an effort to retrieve his beloved wedding ring, had to dig through three days' worth of a duck's fece-"

Watson strode hurriedly to the stairs and shouted for Mrs. Hudson. Somehow, they would find a way to keep this whole thing a secret from Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

The evening that followed was agony. Within five minutes of Holmes returning to Baker Street, he'd frowned while filling his pipe and remarked, "Watson, you've lost your wedding ring."

Watson had made a show of glancing at his hand in mild concern. "Oh yes, Holmes, I noticed. No matter, I probably left it at the surgery."

"… Dear fellow, you haven't been to your practice today."

"Perhaps it was yesterday, then. I don't recall."

Holmes had paused outright to peer at his friend, taking a moment to think before replying slowly, "No, I'm fairly certain you were wearing it yesterday when you returned, Watson."

"Ah! Of course. I shall have to search around in my room, then." He'd waved his hand and lifted a newspaper in an attempt to hide from Holmes' suspicious stare. "I'm sure it will show up."

"You appear surprisingly unconcerned about finding it, dear fellow, for I know how much you cherish it. Are you sure-"

"Yes, Holmes, it's fine. I am confident it will show up. Please, don't worry yourself about it."

Watson had felt Holmes' eyes discretely scrutinizing his every motion for a full hour following this uncomfortable dialogue.

Luckily, the source of Watson's discomfort was far away from reach and earshot. Mrs. Hudson, a sympathetic accomplice, had tied the duck outside in her garden. The yard was far enough away from the sitting room that its irritating squawks would be unheard, and the tether was short enough that Watson could closely monitor for a reappearing gold band.

Holmes eventually forgot about the matter of Watson's ring (or, more accurately, tucked the puzzle of his roommate's curious behavior aside for the moment until more data could be collected), and the pair passed a comfortable evening without further disruption.

The following morning, Holmes bustled out on an errand at breakfast, leaving Watson time to visit his avian prisoner of war.

He met Miss Hudson in the kitchen, and together, the two opened the back door into the garden.

They stood at the doorway in horrified silence.

Mrs. Hudson was horrified to see her beloved garden torn to tatters by an overzealous – and, apparently, eternally hungry – duck.

Watson was horrified to realize, as Mrs. Hudson shrieked in dismay and glared daggers at Tracy's pet, that he'd just lost Mrs. Hudson's assistance in this affair.

In a fit of her Scottish temper, she'd shoved the thrice-damned bird into Watson's arms and propelled him back inside, already busy with the intent of salvaging what she could of the once-vibrant foliage.

Watson was bemused to find himself standing in, for the second time in only fifteen hours, the middle of the sitting room with a duck cradled in his arms.

There was no time to devise a new plan, however, because only moments later, he heard the front door open and Holmes' strident voice demand, "Watson!" There was a pounding of shoes on steps that announced the fast approaching detective.

It wasn't a logical reaction, Watson reflected in embarrassment later. It would have been far easier – and far more reasonable – to have simply revealed everything to Holmes. But the mental image of his friend flinging open the sitting room door to find his roommate sorrowfully clutching a duck to his chest was more than Watson could bear, and with only a second's hesitation, he'd wrenched open the closest cupboard door and thrown the affronted bird inside.

When Holmes did fling open the sitting room door, it was to find Watson lounging rigidly at his desk, wide eyes staring at a book held in his lap.

"Ah, Watson, I am glad to see you up, for there is a—"

Holmes froze two steps into the sitting room and frowned. "Watson, are you quite alright?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then why the devil are you sitting like that? You look terribly uncomfortable."

Watson stood quickly – perhaps too quickly – and threw his book negligently onto the desk. "It is no matter, Holmes. I think I am simply eager to get out of Baker Street for a while. Have you a case at present? You were saying something when you came into the sitting—"

He cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to cover up a disconcerting scuffling sound that emerged from the cupboard beside his left foot.

Holmes, who had remained frozen with suspicion throughout Watson's weak assurances, raised his eyebrows in bemused concern. "Watson?" he inquired with forced lightness.

"Just a tickle in my throat, Holmes, my apologies. As I was saying—"

Holmes interrupted him smoothly. "You have been acting terribly peculiar since yesterday evening." His masterly tone brooked no room for prevarication. Watson tried, all the same.

"Have I?" He asked breathlessly, attempting and failing a nonchalant chuckle. "Yes. I suppose I have been feeling a bit… off. Perhaps I'm catching a cold?"

Holmes' eyebrows shot higher, were that possible, and he stood back on his heels to fix Watson with something of a schoolteacher's reprimanding glare. "A cold," he repeated, unconvinced.

"Yes, Holmes. A cold."

The room became decidedly tense.

The detective waited a moment to see if his reddening companion might try and explain himself further. When it became evident Watson was not going to offer anything more, Holmes cleared his throat and fixed the fidgeting doctor with a stare.

"Watson. I will admit that I do not know what is going on. However, it is foolish to try and deny that there is, indeed, something bothering you." He opened his mouth to speak, but was momentarily interrupted by the return of the scuffling noises and Watson's aggravated throat. He refrained from commenting, and continued. "I also know not why you have deigned to leave me out of the matter. I suspect that your strange behavior has something to do with the absence of your wedding ring. The matter could be innocuous, or it may be something far more serious. In the event of the latter, I would hope that, as your friend, you would not hesitate to allow me into your confidence—"

Watson's inflamed throat worsened very suddenly, and a strangled squawking sound caused Holmes to stutter into silence. Watson's face flushed, and Holmes stared.

The moment the ruffling sound returned, Holmes rushed for the desk beside his roommate. Watson grabbed his shoulders, but Holmes was intent on the desk that appeared to be causing his friend a great deal of consternation.

The doctor was more successful at hindering Holmes than Tracy had been at stopping Watson the afternoon previous, and with his whole weight at Holmes' back, he managed to pull his friend to the ground.

"Watson," Holmes growled with a strained gasp, "for heaven's _sake_, you are being _completely irrational_—"

Holmes' left hand was fumbling for the knob of the cupboard door, and Watson reached desperately to grab hold of his arm. "Holmes, stop! You don't understand—Let—let me explain first! Holmes—Holmes, I said—"

Holmes wrenched his body sideways, catching Watson by surprise and managing to dislodge the struggling doctor from his back. Holmes lost his balance on his hands and knees when Watson yanked at the arm he'd maintained in his grip, but Holmes was free enough to reach the remainder of the distance and yank open the cabinet, from which was now emerging a great deal of noise.

The sight of a distressed brown duck sitting among a pile of torn and ruined papers was only slightly less bizarre than the sight of Watson and Holmes, their hair askew and clothing rumpled, laying on their stomachs and staring in shock at the contents of their desk.

The astounded silence was broken by a sorrowful murmur from Holmes. "Watson, your duck has quite decimated my criminal files for the letter 'F'."

Watson's forehead fell to the ground before him, and he moaned abjectly into the carpet.

* * *

**NOTES:** The ridiculous prompt was as follows: "_watson finds a duck. he keeps the duck. sherlock does no know about the duck until the duck eats his papers."_

[*jabs finger at friend* HA. I WROTE IT. TAKE _THAT._]


	2. Chapter 2

**NOTES: **I had a request to continue it, and... Well, I have. It's a surprising amount of fun to torture a pair of Victorian gentleman with a duck.

I'll have to figure out someway of actually concluding this ridiculous thing, but for now, please enjoy the continued antics of Holmes, Watson, and a_nas platyrhynchos._

* * *

**Chapter Two**

The two gentlemen of Baker Street had collected themselves from the floor following the grand unveiling of the house's new poltergeist and were now sitting before the morning fire. Watson sipped a cup of tea while Holmes finished a pipe in silence.

The detective's attention was rapt upon the duck that had decided to nestle quite comfortably upon his slippers.

Finally, he removed the pipe from his mouth and pronounced carefully, "Perhaps you should start from the beginning, Watson."

Watson hesitated only a second before nodding in resignation. "Of course, Holmes." He set his teacup upon the side table and settled stiffly into his armchair. "I'll keep it simple."

Holmes raised an eyebrow but refrained from making an obvious comment about the dubious adjective.

"One of the young Irregulars, Tracy, showed up at our doorstep with a bad cold yesterday afternoon. He brought his new pet along and saw no reason why he shouldn't let it loose upon our sitting room."

"His pet would be the duck that's chosen my slippers for its resting place, I'd imagine," Holmes supplied drily.

"Yes. Well, earlier that afternoon, I'd removed—"

"You removed your ring and left it within reach of our curious nuisance over there."

Watson sighed through his teeth at the interruption. "Yes." Of course the infuriating man would put the whole matter together within seconds—

"The rest of the story falls into place; hypothesizing a connection between your lost ring, which you would have otherwise retrieved upon the conclusion of your examination, and the presence of an animal which is known to be fascinated by shiny objects leads to the reasonable conclusion that Tracy's pet ingested your wedding band."

"It _could_ have been a coincidence, of course," Watson muttered a trifle sullenly, irritated by Holmes' unerring deduction of events. The detective treated him with a withering glare at his use of the prohibited "c" word, however, counterproductively raising Watsons' spirits by a degree.

"What I find curious," Holmes continued pointedly, "is why you saw the need to hide the matter from me?"

Watson shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. "I… Well, that is to say, Holmes…" He stuttered and closed his mouth, looking up at his friend helplessly.

The detective sighed wearily, resting his forehead against his hand, and Watson slumped a bit guiltily.

"Dear fellow, I know I am an eccentric man, but surely you trust that I would not be so insensitive as to kill a boy's pet? Or throw the creature out of the house before you could retrieve the ring?" He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly at the mess of feathers resting upon his shoes, and added under his breath, "Although, I can't deny that Tracy chose a strange and… mildly irksome companion."

Watson sighed. "Yes. I know, Holmes. I apologize for not trusting you. I'm afraid I reacted in a manner as peculiar as the situation itself."

Holmes looked up after a moment and appeared to relent, flashing a half-smile and waving a hand dismissively. "Do not trouble yourself about it, Watson. You were, after all, rather distracted over the loss of your wedding ring." He frowned, and his attention suddenly fixed on his pipe which he turned over nervously in his hands. "I… know that it is very important to you," he said gently.

Watson felt the familiar tightening in his chest at the oblique reference to his wife. Mary's death remained a frequent ache in his heart. Holmes, of course, was able to observe the pain in his friend; however, the detective remained uncertain as to when – and if – he should mention the late Mrs. Watson.

Comfortingly (_strange,_ Watson thought,_ that I should offer comfort to Holmes and feel some relief in return_), the doctor smiled. "Thank you for understanding, Holmes."

A flicker of warmth passed across the detective's face and he continued in a professional manner. "I suppose all that is left is to wait the situation out."

As one, the pair turned their attentions to the duck. It had woken and was beginning to eye a stack of Holmes' newspapers.

"Watson," Holmes asked warily, "what precisely do ducks eat?"

"Bread and insects, I imagine," Watson answered blandly. "Although it appears that this damnable thing will eat anything it lays eyes upon." He monitored Holmes' expression as the duck wobbled closer to the detective's beloved scrapbooks, one of which he'd left open upon the ground beside the settee. A glimmer of Watson's discomfort returned as the detective quickly took to his feet to remove his belongings from the creature's path.

"Holmes, uh. I _do_ apologize in advance. I rather suspect this whole situation may become somewhat trying before the end."

Holmes straightened suddenly, an armful of papers clutched to his chest that had been narrowly rescued from the nibbling waterfowl. The irritation that had passed absently across his features evaporated at Watson's tone and was replaced, momentarily, by something strange. Guilt? Concern?

In a second it was gone again, and Holmes was merely regarding him with a blank expression. "Watson, please. What is important is getting your wedding ring back. We are used to clients, informants, and thieves traipsing about our sitting rooms; I doubt a duck shall make much worse company."

He laid his bundle of paper-goods upon an already overladen table and turned to Watson with a smile, hands sliding casually into his trouser pockets. "Consider it like this, Watson: We are comrades united against a temporary inconvenience. Surely the two of us together can overcome so silly a trifle as a small duck?"

His unconcerned demeanor might have went further in convincing Watson if the incorrigible bird hadn't chose that very moment to bite at Holmes' heel.

* * *

In the day that followed, Watson might have felt guilt at the havoc Baker Street's new companion wrought; however, as Holmes predicted, the pair soon found themselves united against a common enemy.

It was astounding the nuisance a small bird could be. Within an hour of their conversation, it became obvious that they would need to remove anything at duck-height to a new location. The options were that, or chase after the infernal thing every moment to keep it from destroying their possessions.

It would have been easier to simply remove the duck to Mrs. Hudson's garden – but of course, that option was now quite out of the question. Tethering the animal to a table leg only produced continuous disagreeable squawks that wore on everyone's patience in minutes. They had entertained that particular solution for only five minutes before Mrs. Hudson had entered and requested, "For the love of all that's good, Mr. Holmes, can't you find another solution?"

The fact of the matter was, a duck was simply not meant to reside in a cluttered bachelors' flat in the middle of London.

The detective resisted from suggesting the use of chemicals for a full three hours, a feat which admittedly impressed Watson. However, the answer had to remain: no.

"'Knowledge of Chemistry: profound,'" Holmes quoted exasperatedly, and, not for the first time, Watson regretted having ever published that list of the detective's strengths and weaknesses.

"Holmes, _no_. I do not wish to jeopardize its life. Or would _you _like to be the one to explain to Wiggins and Tracy that we've accidentally killed their pet?"

Holmes scoffed and irritably waved the duck away from inspecting his foot. "I am a professional, Watson, I highly doubt—"

"How much experience do you have with a duck's physiology?" Watson put his hands on his hips and fixed his friend with a stern stare.

Holmes huffed a sigh, but looked away. "With a little bit of research, I'm sure—"

"Holmes, in the time it would take for you to go to the library, research, return, experiment, and test your results, the duck will have already processed its meals and there would be no point."

The duck, which had circled around Holmes' feet stealthily during their argument, triumphantly clamped its bill upon his Achilles tendon. The detective yelped and kicked his foot away, causing the bird to flutter its wings angrily and retreat, quacking, to its favorite spot upon Holmes' slippers.

"At least it would give me time away from this _damnable creature_!" Holmes shouted, rubbing at his ankle and glaring heatedly at the duck which seemed to have become his doppelganger.

Shaking his head in astonishment, Watson was reminded of a case Holmes had shared from the detective's early years. "What _is_ it with animals targeting your ankle, Holmes?" This was the fourth time in the last three hours that the duck had succeeded in its mission of attacking Holmes.

He grunted dispassionately. "I haven't the slightest idea as to why peoples' pets seem intent on crippling me."

The pair observed the duck as it unhappily plucked at Holmes' slippers. By now, the room was curiously bare at the one-foot mark, and the duck appeared to be growing bored with its surroundings. After a moment, Holmes suggested an idea that had been scrapped before.

"Watson… I know that we shall have to make a thorough scrub of it when this business is finished, but why don't we go ahead and fill the washtub? I don't think the hassle of cleaning the 'tub shall be worse than the fatigue of chasing this creature 'round and 'round our sitting room."

Initially, Watson had balked at the idea; but now, a few hours into their roles as nanny, his protestations about sanitation and convention seemed entirely ridiculous. The detective and doctor shared a look and, as one, rushed to the washroom door.

"We must try and keep this from Mrs. Hudson, of course," Watson added unnecessarily.

Holmes shook his head. "That shall be virtually impossible. She shall hear the water and splashing."

Watson grimaced. "We shall have to come up with some way of placating her. She is already rather upset about her garden."

Holmes rolled up his sleeves while he thought. "To begin with, we shall clean the mess ourselves."

Watson nodded before going to retrieve the duck.


End file.
